


Whistling Britannia; a 'Songs from the Floodplain' slashfic

by Grondfic



Category: 'Songs from the Floodplain' concept album by Jon Boden
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 16:27:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10948326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grondfic/pseuds/Grondfic
Summary: The events from the songBeating the Bounds(lyrics here - https://darkmountain.bandcamp.com/track/beating-the-bounds) from musician Abraham Brown's pov.





	Whistling Britannia; a 'Songs from the Floodplain' slashfic

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Boden's album is in the "Folkdystopia" genre. The songs take place at various times in a post-oil-on-tap future when dwindling reserves are jealously guarded by "the Government", and small communities have gone in on themselves, existing in tight-knit isolation.
> 
> 2\. The various songs:  
> both _Blackjack Davy_ and _Seven Yellow Gypsies_ are variants on the tale of the Lady abandoning castle and new-wedded lord for the Gypsy boy. Some versions end in death and some in triumph. _The Tinkerman's Daughter_ by Michael McConnel tells of an ill-fated match between a Gypsy girl and a farmer in rural Ireland. The words are here - http://www.mysongbook.de/msb/songs/t/tinkerman.html
> 
> The "folksongs of the future" are, I hope, sufficiently well-known; and are merely a personal guess at what popular masterpieces may have had staying power.
> 
> 3, Mad Simon: for those unused to the UK's own particular brand of ritual, this is an oblique reference to the Last Night of the Proms, held annually at the Albert Hall, when a number of patriotic songs are sung (in a spirit of more or (maybe) less postmodernist irony), including _Rule Britannia_.
> 
>  **DISCLAIMER** : All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made. It's pure _Homage_!

Abraham’s Sunday Best is, on this Festival Day, augmented by an ancient shirt of his Dad’s, scented with lavender from Mum’s clothes-press, and sewn-over with old, shiny ribbons of green, red and black.

Dad once told him that in The Times Before, they possessed wonderful instruments to make the music when they danced in these ribboned clothes – a Cordion, and a Fiddle strung with catgut.

Abraham has tried several times to make such strings for the fragile thing called Old Strad that Dad left in his care when he passed. Sadly the wildcats now must be an inferior breed, because, after a long hunt and many hours of bloody work, he merely attained something long and squishy that dried into nothing better than decent catapult strings. He has thus acquired a wholly undeserved reputation as a Maker of Weapons of Rat-Destruction, but Old Strad remains mute, smothered in Gran’s castoff flannel petticoat.

Nowadays, Abraham’s music is restricted to what he can produce with vocal chords and a strong pair of lungs. He sings the songs that Gran and Dad, and Wicked Uncle Norman too, have handed down to him. Indeed, he’s quite famous for it. Outliers come from neighbouring villages – even from the Gypsy Camp on the motorway, to hear him.

When the Wandering Folk are present, Abraham will sing _Blackjack Davy_ and _Seven Yellow Gypsies_ ; even – sometimes – _The Tinkerman’s Daughter_. The tune of that one is a tragic lament for the misunderstanding between man and woman; traveller and settled-folk. Abraham wouldn’t sing it in these tearing-apart days – but for the magic pull of that tune!

Generally he gives the Village the regular stuff that gets requested and savoured time after time – _Yellow Submarine, I want to live like Common People, Sloop John B, Masters of War_ and something everyone calls _Fiddy Cent’s Rap_ and requests all the time, even though the words don’t make any sense.

On Bound-Beating Day, though, it’s an Official Gig and so Abraham wears his ancient ribbons with pride. He wishes that Dad’s battered old penny-whistle hadn’t finally rusted away from inside. He’s tried making another one, using the hollow stems of the ubiquitous Japanese knot-weed infesting huge swathes of The Wastelands, but it won’t work for him. In spite of the catapults, he’s a musician, not really a craftsman – not like That Lad who’s staring around just ahead of him. 

So, trusting his own sturdy lungs, Abraham whistles, puckered lips sore and trembly for the hours that it takes. Everyone – even Gran – agrees that _Britannia_ is the right tune for this Parade, although no one quite knows why; even though Mad Simon rattles on about the Last Night at Albert’s.

Abraham isn’t sure – really – that he approves of the Parade. He doesn’t like the undue influence wielded by the likes of Ahab Smith, with his regular rant about “The Others”. The Mayor has let things slide, and Ahab, like an insidious oil-spill, has crept into the crevices of the ritual. Even old Canon Davis allows it, though generally he preaches a kinder God, and tolerance towards all men.

Abraham does his best, with inappropriate whistling, to distract The Throng from the tide of bile that Ahab spews over the day, but so far, only That Lad has taken any notice. He has high hopes of That Lad, truth be told. There’s a refreshing air of insouciant cynicism about him, that permeates the whole Parade for Abraham this year.

And he’s grown into quite a beauty! The constant work at the forge must’ve done that for him. His tall, long-legged stride, carelessly elegant stance and flexing arm-muscles have even intimidated Ahab Smith a little (if That Lad had only noticed!). So the flood-tide of bile is somewhat abated; for which Abraham gives grateful, silent thanks as he whistles.

He’s busy on an inappropriate descending-arpeggio counterpoint to Ahab’s peroration, when he suddenly falters for the first time ever. A new, alien sounds splits the air – a gust of raucous, heedlessly untuneful laughter.

The ordered ranks of Paraders fray a little at the edges, as everyone cranes to find its source.

Just above their heads, on the first platform of Tower-Karpark, a dirty, golden angel inhabits one of the rusting old chariots.

 _The Tinkerman’s Daughter, right ‘nough!_ Thinks Abraham, eyeing – half in envy, half in disfavour – her gaudy rags, silver-foil-braided hair and black, broken glasses.

Her raven’s caw of laughter easily overlays both Ahab’s shrill parroting, and his own lost-world tune.

And then he notices That Lad.

His deep dark eyes are huge in his head as he stares – lips parted in unconscious invitation - at the girl. Abraham picks up his own faltering notes, and whistles so high and hard that the veins near-burst at his temples, and he feels a shiver as if antlers are straining to spring though. But it’s no use. The Raven-Voice-Girl has come for That Lad, and will not be gainsaid for all his whistling _Britannia_. In the a-tonal instant when whistle and caw clash, That Lad is lost to him forever.

Wounded pride stiffens his backbone and fills his ballooning lungs with air. He disciplines his chapped lips to the rhythm of the meaningless old tune as – with many an outraged murmur – the Parade reassembles itself and marches on.

That Lad, with one long backwards glance, falls in; obedience – just for now – kicking in. But Abraham doesn’t doubt that he’ll be following The Pilgrim’s Road to the wildwood before Spring Solstice!

The Ever-Youthful Goddess wins again! The innate subversion in Abraham’s soul makes a gallant attempt to rejoice. But his heart, like his sore mouth, is bruised and bleeding


End file.
